


fact and fancy

by CuddleFuddle



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Fluff, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:56:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddleFuddle/pseuds/CuddleFuddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the one where Carlos starts to fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fact and fancy

**Author's Note:**

> "It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others." -- Jane Austen

The first time you call Cecil, it's entirely business-related.

It's a day or two after you discover the problem with the clocks, and you feel as though your world has flipped on its axis. The amount of sheer irrationality that Night Vale has thrown at you so far seems irrelevant when compared to the idea that _time may not be working_. Everything you thought you knew about everything - it all boils down to time as a constant, a baseline for all activity and lack thereof.

And now you have to call that into question because of course you do. Because by all accounts Night Vale is a strange and wondrous place - the most scientifically fascinating community in the US is the term you used, you think - but at least you could rely on those strange and wondrous phenomena to occur within the parameters of a reasonable universe.

Now you can't, and the thought makes you choke a laugh. You feel wild eyed and harried, and you're halfway through this existential-crisis-slash-desperate-spiral-into-denial when one of your grad students (Theodore, you think) suggests it.

"Why don't you call Cecil? Get him to issue a PSA or something."

It's such an obvious solution to what seems like an unsolvable problem; call Cecil, get data, confirm your findings. Cordon off the unbelievable and force it to conform. Brilliant.

When you pause to stare at him, he shrugs and takes another bite of something bright pink and leafy. You swear you see it blink.

"Everyone listens to Cecil," he says by way of explanation and you suppose that's true. The radio in the lab does have an eerie way of always being on when he's broadcasting, and the last time you tried to change the channel the whole thing sizzled and sparked electric green and blue smoke. You hadn't touched it since.

So you call.

*

When you first got to Night Vale you'd thought the whole thing was an elaborate joke.

Your first time hearing Cecil on the radio had been shortly after you'd gotten your first haircut. Your natural proclivity for exploring Night Vale had been strictly limited to phenomena that did _not_ involve you touching anything. At least, not without protective clothing and layers upon layers of gloves.

(Most peculiarly was the reaction of the townspeople; when they saw you on the streets they would wave and smile, before turning to whisper about how adorable you were in your "scientist outfit." _Our scientists never dress like that! He must be doing real science!_ they would say, without a hint of condescension and in retrospect that probably had a lot to do with Cecil too, but you didn't know it at the time.)

Eventually you had to get your hair cut; it was starting to get long, and you had an image of authority to uphold, if not for the citizens of Night Vale then for your team.

So you'd gone to the local barber and gotten it done. It was about as ordinary as a haircut could be. Your barber appeared to be humanoid, his tools did not smoke or hum or otherwise behave oddly, and by the end you were a) unharmed and b) happy with your haircut. All in all, a success.

But by the time you'd returned to the lab, you'd found your newly purchased radio - still in its packaging - on and tuned in to Cecil's radio show, just in time for you to hear him scolding Telly-the-barber for "shearing your perfect locks."

In a town where there were earthquakes that didn't seem to exist and government-mandated weekly slices of pizza, a local radio host being so over-the-moon about your hair seemed so normal, so _laughably_ normal that you had dismissed it as being impossible. You had a hypothesis already, a schema of how things worked in Night Vale, and love at first sight was so humorously boring that you dismissed it as impossible. It didn't make sense to you, couldn't possibly be true.

Instead you'd unpacked the radio and plugged it in, balancing it on top of the file cabinet one of your grad students had picked up from the local Target and gone back to work.

Over the next couple of days, people in town had stared at your hair, some making disparaging comments under their breath and you never saw Telly again. Cecil continued to pepper his daily newscasts with casual comments about you - your work, your appearance at town meetings, your hair - all prefaced with "perfect Carlos" or something else that was equal parts embarrassing/flattering.

You started to wonder if maybe he was serious. Some of your lab mates seemed to think so; Natasha in particular used to snicker at you every time she passed you, mouthing the words "perfect" and Carlos". You know she meant it well, and you wanted to appear friendly and able to roll with the punches, so you never called her out on it, despite your embarrassment. And as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, you stopped being embarrassed altogether.

Instead you would listen to the radio, humming softly to yourself as you worked, reminded pleasantly of the fact that someone in this universe loves you - purely and simply, a crisp light in a dark night, the moon hovering over the horizon, a warm breeze on a cool October evening - without shame and with abandon.

You've never been loved like that before.

It's kind of nice.

*

So you call Cecil.

You're nervous about it, shy even. You can hardly remember how you even got his number - you know he gave it to you, all anxious smiles and fluttering movements, but you can't remember when or why.

A month ago you would find that disturbing; now you simply wonder if Night Vale itself intended you to contact him. That seems almost more plausible than you forgetting, a piece of absurdity that makes you snort out a laugh.

He picks up on the second ring. His voice is cautious and tinny, smaller than he sounds on the radio, but still distinctly Cecil.

"Hello?"

"I need to talk to you," you say in a rush of breath. "This is important."

You can hear the change in him; there's a sharp intake of breath before he speaks next, and though he sounds functionally the same plus or minus a change in voice pitch, you know without a doubt that you'll be hearing all about this on the radio.

And when you say his name you know he shivers.

*

You don't actually end up hearing about it on the radio.

You wake in your living room with your phone in hand, a dismembered clock on your coffee table, and an undeniable urge to call Cecil. You don't know what happened or why; there's a niggling sensation in the back of your brain like something isn't quite right about this, like you've been caught unawares by some mildly benevolent but otherwise inhuman force of being. Like there's something you should've done or were going to do and for a moment you had stood, briefly on the edge, balanced precariously over the void, and had it not been for something - otherworldly and omnipresent, the essence of Night Vale itself stepping in to mediate - you would have been pushed over the brink.

You dismiss it and dial Cecil's number.

*

The second thirdfourthfifthsixth time you call Cecil it is for business.

The seventh time, it is not.

*

"I'm calling for personal reasons," you say, throat dry, and you think you hear him make a noise of surprise in the back of his throat. "Also, my calculations show a strange source of energy approaching the town, but not emanating the kind of light that such a source should," you add because you're unable to have a conversation without injecting science into it, because science is warm and comforting and talking to Cecil about science is warm and comforting. Everything else about this is terrifying – an 8.5 on your personal Richter scale, at least.

"Oh?" He says, and if it were anyone else you'd accuse him of being coy but knowing Cecil he's genuinely unsure of why you're calling.

It's been a couple weeks since The Incident, the one where you almost died and Cecil almost cried about it and you sat on the trunk of your car together and watched the lights above the Arby's. The air was cool and dry, the sky the colour of a bruise. The lights were beautiful. You'd felt small and insignificant, keenly aware of every scrape and cut. Your body had throbbed with the indignity of it, and you knew you should head home and try to rest, but Cecil was a warm and solid presence next to you, real as anything in Night Vale could be, and you needed that then, more than anything. Your hand was on his knee, and his head was against your shoulder. It was categorically perfect.

(Later, in the comfort of your bedroom, curtains drawn and lights dimmed, you'll analyze this: your reaction to Cecil's proximity, the way your heart had tripped and stuttered, unsure and out of practice, throat dry and palms sweaty. You'll think about the way Cecil's hand felt in yours, slender and soft, and the way that Cecil had looked at you like he was first seeing you, eyes wide and pupils blown. You'd never wanted to kiss someone so badly before, but you had balked and Cecil had sighed and the moment had dissipated, melting into the night sky.) 

You call Cecil and you ask him out to dinner and your heart is hammering and your voice is rasping and Cecil sounds downright giddy and once again, you're terrified. It's half hypothesis half experiment because you _know_ , with a certainty you've not been awarded since before Night Vale, that you'll enjoy it. You'll go out to dinner and it will be weird and Night Valian and Cecil will be weird and Night Valian and you'll find it charming.

You don't know when that happened.

It seems cruel to tell Cecil that it's less of a first-of-many-to-come date and more of a romantic-compatibility-experiment date but it seems crueler to keep your intentions from him. But Cecil just laughs, high and clear, and says, _oh Carlos_ , in the way that he does.

"Isn't that what all first dates are anyways?" Cecil hummed, and you blush with the obviousness of it. Cecil continues on without noticing, tongue tripping over his words as he hastens to reassure Carlos that yes, he totally thinks they'll be romantically compatible, and yes, he appreciates Carlos' honesty because openness is important for building trust - not that Cecil doesn't trust Carlos implicitly, of course, but– 

"Cecil," you interrupt gently, and he places a hand to his lips, eyes wide.

"It's okay," you finish awkwardly, and Cecil drops his hand and beams at you, brilliant and dizzying. He slides his arm in between yours and your fingertips brush the hem of his sleeve as you walk into Gino’s Italian Dining Experience And Grill And Bar. 

The restaurant is weird in that you can't remember being seated and your portobello mushroom is bleeding, but Cecil’s eyes are shining with something akin to hope and you haven’t the heart to do anything more than cut a bite off, eyeing nervously. It's less charming and more alarming, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have to not turn this into one of your projects.

Cecil worriedly asks if you're a vegetarian; you tell him no and take a bite, instantly relieved. The blood in your mouth tastes like mushroom and you are fascinated; Cecil sighs as if a weight has been lifted. 

"I’ve been thinking," you say, and Cecil lights up like he’s expecting a confession of love. It hits you then, staggering with its weight, an anxious thrumming in your heart and your head. That this is the fundamental difference between you and Cecil; he’s in love with you, and you barely know him. You barely know him and he’s looking at you with stars in his eyes and you have no idea how to begin to reciprocate.

The conversation is stilted after that; you don’t know what to say, not with Cecil hanging on to every word like it’s the gospel truth.

When the waiter returns with the brick for the window (Cecil explains this all to you like it’s perfectly normal) you’re grateful. You’re grateful that he appears to be a buzzing shadow person. You’re grateful that you can go to the park – decline the screaming, settle into tree-testing instead – and you’re grateful when Cecil finally, finally, drives you to your lab.

“Well, this is me,” you say awkwardly. Your fingers itch around your keys, antsy to retreat into the security of your lab, and Cecil is practically vibrating with excitement. You kiss him to keep him from being disappointed about the date, about your awkward sentences and the trees and the science and the buzzing shadow people. His lips are dry and warm like the desert air and your heart feels sore with some kind of emotion you don’t want to quantify right now. You’re sorry you hadn't done this before, sorry to close the door behind you as Cecil skips – _skips_ – to his car.

*

You save the town from buzzing shadow people; Cecil gushes about your date on the radio and people smile at you in the Ralph’s.

*

"I don't think I love you the way you love me," you say on your second date and Cecil tenses beside you. You're back on the trunk of your car. The sky today is a violent purple and sprinkled with stars, and the lights above Arby's are wavering through shades of blue. It's just as beautiful as it was the first time you'd been here.

"I don't really understand it," you continue, catching Cecil's hand in yours. You stroke his knuckles absentmindedly, eyes on the flickering void above you. "You, I mean."

"What's there to understand?" Cecil murmurs beside you. "I'm just me."

The brevity isn't like him. You were expecting Cecil-the-radio-host and instead you got timid, unsure-of-himself Cecil. You don't like it.

"I don't know how you did it so quickly," you amend, feeling decidedly unintelligent, and Cecil sighs like he's trying to put space between you, like he can push you away with air itself. "I've scared you off, haven't I? Oh what a fool I've been. Foolish, _foolish,_ Cecil!”

“Don’t—” you start, but Cecil’s already launching into some diatribe, free hand gesticulating. You wonder if he does this on the radio, fingers curling around the reams of words spilling from his mouth, cupping them and carrying them.

This time when you kiss Cecil it’s to shut him up. It works – he makes a muffled noise against your lips, all wet mouth and hard teeth. For a moment the world seems to spin around you, the void above you blurred. Then Cecil’s pulling away, looking sheepish.

You’ll have to follow up on that later.

“I’m not finished,” you say breathlessly, and Cecil just nods and blinks, and you take a breath to steady yourself, to clear your swimming head.

You’ve never been good with words, not as an adolescent and certainly not now. You don’t know how to phrase it in a way that Cecil will understand, not when you’re not sure you understand yourself. You didn’t do anything; you woke up one morning and Cecil loved you with a devotion that you didn’t deserve. You’ve been flaky and shy and awkward, wholly focused on your work and on shutting Cecil out. And he’d just waited, patiently, steady and constant when nothing else, not even time itself, had been.

“Just give me time,” you say finally. It’s not enough, nowhere near enough, but Cecil smiles like it is, slow and soft, melting under your gaze and squeezing your hand.

“Of course,” he promises, and you exhale a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. You shut your eyes against the burn of the stars and the lights and Cecil bumps his knee against yours.

The wind off of the Sand Wastes is warm. Something in the distance howls. Beside you Cecil is thrumming again, a vibration you can feel throughout your body, and above you the lights are flickering mauve.

“Dinner next week?”

Cecil smiles.


End file.
